


Cold (And Disconnected)

by Dikhotomia



Series: Whumptober 2k19: FE3H Edition [4]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Day 4 Human Shield, Gen, I'd say I was sorry, Rhea is entirely done with zealots the fic, but I'm not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 14:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dikhotomia/pseuds/Dikhotomia
Summary: "Stand back, Lady Rhea, they say, always putting themselves between her and whatever danger charges at her. She should be used to it by now, the chaos of a battle raging around her that she has no need to take part in. She should be used to it, but she's not, the itch that starts at the base of her spine and spreads, makes her fingers twitch and her muscles tense for the second an enemy breaks through the formation and is left to her. Instead it's civilians that break the formation, their desperate escape pushing her back and away from her guards."ORA routine visit lands Rhea in hot water.





	Cold (And Disconnected)

She sees them through the crowd, faces of fanatics she pins out of instinct, out of paranoia bred from century after century of attempts on her life. And they see her as she pretends not to notice them, standing that much closer to Catherine's side, the backs of her knuckles bumping lightly against the back of the knight's forearm. It's enough to get her attention, the younger woman's eyes jumping to her with a question on her lips that's never given voice.

Whatever expression she wears is enough of an answer.

The town around them erupts into chaos before Rhea speaks, the breath she draws coming out as a hiss between carefully clenched teeth. Again, she thinks as Thunderbrand sparks red in Catherine's hands, as the other knights with them surround her where she stands, weapons held at the ready. She doesn't move despite the magic thrumming in her fingertips, she isn't expected to fight.

_Stand back, Lady Rhea,_ they say, always putting themselves between her and whatever danger charges at her. She should be used to it by now, the chaos of a battle raging around her that she has no need to take part in. She should be used to it, but she's not, the itch that starts at the base of her spine and spreads, makes her fingers twitch and her muscles tense for the second an enemy breaks through the formation and is left to her. Instead it's civilians that break the formation, their desperate escape pushing her back and away from her guards.

It would be easy for her to become an immovable wall, to plant her feet and dig in, forcing the sea of bodies to part around her like a stone in a raging river. But to the public eye she's a holy woman, the Archbishop of the Church, not a warrior. Not a centuries old survivor still fighting in a shadow war with no end in sight.

So instead she shouts, reaching feebly over the shoulder of a man who is probably trying to save her as much as he is himself. "Catherine!" She worries she'll be drowned out, but the knight in question looks, anger turning to shock and fear before she's yelling and cutting down a zealot in her way.

_Good,_ Rhea thinks bitterly stumbling to the side as her would be savior trips,_ it's what you deserve._ She reaches down to help him, to shove him along, then moves with them, hands held out to usher children along who risk being trampled underfoot.

(_And for a moment her hands are stained in red, bodies stretching out as far as she can see._

_"There you are--"_)

Someone pulls her away from the crowd, hauling her with enough force her crown slips free, clattering to the dust at her feet. People stop, watching in horror and reaching for her and her first instinct is to strike out, drive her elbow up and back and into the nose of the solid body she finds herself half pinned against, but the knife at her ribs stops her. "You shouldn't have left your knights, Archbishop." Her lip twitches, eyes fixated on the ramshackle house across from them above the heads of those were brave enough to stop. She knows she shouldn't have, but that was the thing about mass panic.

It's hard to stay with the people who were supposed to protect you. "You involved innocents on purpose," she says, low and with a tremor of fear she doesn't remotely feel, not even when the knife pricks against her skin through the fabric of her robes. She's used to pain, to injury, so the threat falls on it's face.

"Of course, because the good pious civilians would want to save their Archbishop," he says more to the crowd instead of her. The knife flickers in the corner of her vision, an armored hand wrapping around her throat. "But they're not going to be able to, because if anyone moves a muscle I'll kill her." She plays afraid, widening her eyes and parting her lips, sucking in her breath a little faster.

Her pulse is already pounding, anger thundering through her veins and spurring adrenaline through every inch of her body. "How dare you!" someone shouts, a face she identifies as a woman who fed them lunch earlier, and she fondly remembers the little girl at her skirts, spending the better part of an hour listening to a story she told.

"Let Lady Rhea go!" Another shouts, and she knows him immediately as the man who was trying to save her. She holds up a hand, faking a struggle for a smile that comes too easy.

"Do not worry," she says, hearing the rumble of approaching footsteps. "The Goddess shall pass judgement upon them." Her knights, or she would kill him herself.

"The Goddess?" He laughs, and this time the knife finds her cheek hard enough to bleed, a sharp sting of pain left in the wake of the path he drags it across. "What's she going to do, huh? I have her holy woman." People shift, at least one taking enough of a step forward the grip on her throat tightens until her breath saws rough in her lungs and her vision swims faintly at the edges just as Catherine rounds the corner with the rest of the knights, watches as the woman's panic becomes a thundercloud of rage.

"You bastard!" she shouts, her relic clutched tightly in her hand. "Using Rhea as a shield! What kind of coward are you?!" It's too personal, but Rhea forgives it without a second thought. She knows who she is to these people, how important the part she assigned herself to play is. Everyone knows Catherine is one of her strongest knights, the one always closest to her side when they were out. So no one bats an eye at the lack of her title.

"The kind who survives," her captor drawls. "Drop your weapons."

"Like hell! What do you even want anyway?!" Catherine demands, the knights behind her slowly fanning out despite the danger. Keep him distracted, surround him, rescue her. Basic training, that before now had never been actually used out in the field. But the man behind her takes a step back then another, and the tug on her throat forces her to move with him, teeth gritting.

She feels the first spark of real fear blossoming under the indignant still simmering in her blood.

"There's someone who wants to see your dear Archbishop," he replies. "But they didn't specify if they wanted her dead or alive..and like I told all these nice people here, I will kill her...and that'd be a damn shame for you Knights huh."

Briefly, she wonders who out of the various groups to oppose them it was that would want to see her. "You have a flaw in your plan," she points out then, the chill in her voice bringing pause to everyone as she looks back and fixes her attention finally on the man who holds her. "If you kill me, nothing stops my knights from passing judgement on you."

Whatever he sees in her eyes makes him pause, fear passing through the overconfidence and freezing it in place.

"You know I heard rumors you were some kinda monster," he breathes, and the knife presses harsh and biting against her jugular. "And you know I thought they were lying...but maybe they were right."

"Rhea!"

She moves, catching a wrist in a bruising grip and twisting, driving an elbow back with enough force to wind. The knife hits the ground and she pulls free as he rears up and swings, his fist glancing off her nose.

_You know you don't have to keep training,_ she remembers Seteth saying, leaning against the wall as she fought the shadows that live in the corners of her mind. _There are people who would lay down their lives for you._

She drives the memory away with the fist that breaks the bandit's nose, the snap of if sickening and final and he drops to the dirt like a discarded sack of flour.

Behind her Catherine whispers a curse that draws her attention. "Language," she mutters.

It's absurd enough the other woman laughs.

"Come on," Catherine says, reaching a hand out to her. "Let's get those wounds cleaned up and go home."

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on [Tumblr](http://dikhotomia.tumblr.com/) and or [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/modulatechaos)


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